


Start Living...

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-10
Updated: 2006-07-10
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Nothing of great import is ever truly lost forever. Sequel to Stop Playing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Start Living... (Sequel to 'Stop Playing...' )  
Author: kinkynicky  
  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
  
  
Rating: NC-17  
  
  
Summary: Nothing of great import is ever truly lost forever.  
Length: 2, 022  
Disclaimers: Sam and Dean belong to Kripke and others, they’re not mine.  
  
Feedback is sexy and you know it.  
  
  
  
Start Living...  
  
  
  
Sam is almost twenty three before it all gets too much for him.  
  
  
  
They don’t touch now. Certainly not like they used to, but not even like brothers now, not even like buddies do. Sure, there are odd playful smacks here and there, and Dean grabs him a lot to pull him from danger, but that’s all. It’s empty.  
  
  
  
There was a moment, a second in time when everything felt like they were back home, back where they could touch and kiss, and Sammy made the wrong move, far too soon.  
  
  
  
What the hell are you doing?   
  
  
  
That same angry look from the bedroom that night, the same lost expression. Dean looked at him like he was insane, actually, which he’s starting to think he might be.  
  
  
  
For about a week after that Dean is short with him, won’t really look at him for too long and only mumbles whenever he has something that needs to be said.  
  
  
  
On a Saturday Sam says what he thinks Dean wants to hear.  
  
  
  
I’m sorry.  
  
  
  
He isn’t sure exactly what he’s apologising for.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Its eight months before he finds himself in a desperate, predatory state, stalking Dean until he’s backed against the wall of the motel, hands on either side of his brother’s waist, nose nudging a lightly stubbled cheek.  
  
  
  
“Don’t. Sam, don’t.”  
  
  
  
Dean doesn’t say Sammy anymore unless he’s trying to wind Sam up, and he aches to hear it, mumbled from parted lips, between breathless pants.  
  
  
  
Do you want me? And he’s obviously too close, almost a whole year of hunting together is still obviously not enough time for Dean, who pulls away, kind of like the first time Sam touched him, pausing only to grab his jacket before Sam hears the door slam.  
  
  
  
He doesn’t wait up.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
It’s been another month of nothing. A month of everything…just not the kind of everything he wants – needs – from Dean.  
  
  
  
The problem with letting it go is that Sam understands beauty now. Sees Dean differently but with the same aching need. Before, Dean was Dean – impressive, heroic, strong. That’s what made Sam’s eyes light up years ago.  
  
  
  
He sees him for what he really is now. Fragile, beautiful, false even to himself, hiding from who he is. It’s incredible how realising that Dean is truly fucked up only makes Sam want him ten times more.  
  
  
  
He thinks sometimes about just taking what he wants from him.  
  
  
  
He’d never do that. Couldn’t do that to Dean, but the amount of times he’s thought about it, imagined it in his head? It’s enough to make him contemplate leaving again, only he knows that if he did, this last thread of hope he’s been grasping for would be severed. Dean wouldn’t recover from that.  
  
  
  
This, what they have now, can be worked with, this can be worked on.  
  
  
  
It’s all about timing with Dean. Always was.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Demons seem fond of throwing Dean into walls. This time he goes right through it, landing in a pile of splinters and broken plaster, coughing, choking on the unsettled dust.  
  
  
  
That demon is gone and Sam is beside Dean in less than ten seconds, sliding a long arm underneath his brother to lift him, and even like this, wounded and in need of help Dean is squirming away.  
  
  
  
It hurts Sam’s heart.  
  
  
  
“God, Sam, get the fuck off of me.” But Sam won’t let go, he’s pulling his brother up and wrapping an arm around his waist, hearing Dean hiss. Its pain, but it still makes him hard, reminds him of how Dean used to hiss because of him, because of his mouth and hands. Callow, learning fingers skimming smooth, slightly freckled skin. Almost as if Dean can read his thoughts he tenses up. “I swear to god I’ll kick your ass. Let go of me, Sam!”  
  
  
  
For some reason, it’s different, another story when it’s Sam slamming Dean up against the wall, and Dean’s eyes are blinking rapidly, a long groan of pain escaping his chest.  
  
  
  
“What the-”  
  
  
  
“Shut up.” It comes out a lot harsher than he expected but Dean’s mouth slams closed so he decides it’s not really a bad thing. Sam’s hair is layered with the dust and it creates a thin cloud as he shakes his head, angry. “Just fucking shut up, okay? We can’t keep on living like this, Dean. I hurt you, I know I did, but I swear on my life that I will never do it again. And I’ll never let you get hurt again either, so you better stop pulling away whenever I try to help.”  
  
  
  
Dean’s face is closed off, Sam’s not even sure he’s heard him at all but when he stops speaking Dean’s eyes flicker up towards him and he nods slightly, unwillingly.  
  
  
  
“Right. The car is five minutes away, you have to let me help you. We’ll go slow, okay?”  
  
  
  
And as Dean’s arm falls across his shoulder, allowing Sam’s hand to clasp his, Sam knows that this is what it feels like when trust starts to rebuild itself.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Sam’s not over it, not by a long shot, still jacking off in the shower to the image of Dean and whimpering in his sleep from dreams of his brother, but he’s accepted that maybe this is all he’ll ever get from Dean again. That’s why it’s such a shock when Dean finally acknowledges that something happened back then.  
  
  
  
“Was it me?”  
  
  
  
He’s yelling, not at Sam, not at anything in particular, but he’s not being quiet, and he’s open in his confusion as he stands in the middle of the room with his arms outstretched, a deep frown marring his forehead.  
  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
  
Sam kicks out a chair but Dean doesn’t sit, just shrugs, continuing to stand in the middle of the room. “When you left. Was it cause of me?” Sam makes to answer but Dean shakes his head, beginning to pace. “I’m just curious, Sam, that’s all. Cause, I know it wasn’t exactly normal, but it was…I thought you wanted it as much as I did – hell, you started the whole thing, never able to keep your freakin’ hands to yourself, but then it’s you that up and leaves.”  
  
  
  
He’s shaking his head, pacing more frantically seeming almost unaware that Sam is even there.  
  
  
  
“I’ve spent the last four years trying to work out what I did wrong and I just can’t work it out. Was it ‘cause I made you wait? Sam, I didn’t want you to do anything you’d regret, you don’t think I wanted to fuck you? I just didn’t want you to-”  
  
  
  
Twice in one month Sam has slammed him up against a wall.  
  
  
  
This time he’s not angry, doesn’t plan to shout, just holds Dean in place. Dean, who is surprisingly quiet as Sam leans into him, whispering, “Are you done with your little monologue now?”  
  
  
  
He knows that Dean can feel his breath, his warmth, the way their bodies just fit together again like they always did.  
  
  
  
“I…I don’t know. Maybe.” Dean nods, then shakes his head. “No, probably not.” Sam knows he’s too close, knows that Dean is stuttering because of nerves and maybe discomfort. Knows that he doesn’t particularly care.  
  
  
  
“Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever did.” He sighs, leaning forwards a little, inhaling Dean’s scent, resting his cheek against Dean’s as his other hand comes up to cup the other side of his brother’s face. “I hated it, being at Stanford without you, wanting to touch you. I kept thinking you’d be just around the corner wherever I went. I wanted to see you. God…I missed you.”  
  
  
  
He’s laying kisses down the side of Dean’s face and the only reaction is a sharp intake of breath. There is no pulling away, no fighting. When Dean starts to lean into the kisses he knows he’s getting somewhere finally.  
  
  
  
He leans closer, his chest pressing against Dean’s as his lips brush his brother’s ear. “Make love to me.”  
  
  
  
He sounds like a girl. He knows it, and he doesn’t care, that’s what he wants. He wants Dean to make love to him. He doesn’t want his brother to mistake anything that happens between them for ‘fucking’ when every moment with him ever has always been making love.  
  
  
  
“No.”  
  
  
  
Sam groans, pulling back to look his brother in the eyes. He’s more assertive this time, his voice stronger, his face set serious. “Make love to me, Dean.”  
  
  
  
Dean’s breath shudders out of him, a small shake of his head. “No.”  
  
  
  
So Sam settles for more nuzzling, and Dean seems alright with that. He’s tracing the line of Dean’s cheekbone with the tip of his nose as he breathes gently against his brothers skin, letting one hand sneak up to take hold of Dean’s hip.  
  
  
  
He grinds once.  
  
  
  
“How many times can you say no to me, Dean?”  
  
  
  
There’s a deep groan, and a mutter that sound something like “God, Sam, don’t.” But he figures that if Dean really meant it he’d be saying it a little louder.  
  
  
  
When he grinds again, Dean mutters something else, and this time Sam knows he’s meant to hear it. “Why are you doing this to me?”  
  
  
  
To you? Sam could pull away, feels like it, but he won’t, knows now more than ever that he needs to press the issue to get anywhere with Dean, cause he sure as hell won’t come around on his own, not without a little nudge.  
  
  
  
A big nudge.  
  
  
  
Both hands on Dean’s hips now, Sam’s grinds become part of a rhythm, his own breath coming harder as his own body reacts to his movements. He has to make Dean listen to him. This time, he won’t walk away until it’s fixed.  
  
  
  
“Because…I want you.” The pause for breath does nothing to disguise the complete, honest determination in his voice, and Sam’s hands come up to grasp either side of his brother’s face as he leans backwards to look Dean in the eyes. “I’ve always wanted you, Dean.”  
  
  
  
His brother’s eyes fall closed, but Sam knows he’s listening, knows that anything he says, Dean will hear.  
  
  
  
“Always like this. Exactly. Like. This.” His last three words are emphasised by rolls of his hips, feeling the hardness of his brother against his thigh.  
  
  
  
Dean whimpers, his head falling back against the wall, and he lets out a long breath, probably trying to disguise his want as resignation, pretending he will endure this because he has to, and not because he wants to.  
  
  
  
It’ll do though, Sam decides as his lips fall upon Dean’s exposed neck, closed, gentle kisses at first, sighs and nuzzles in all the right places, up underneath Dean’s jaw to the point just below his ear, and then back again, down to the hollow of his throat where Sam’s mouth falls open, closed kisses becoming wet, more persistent kisses until Sam can taste Dean’s skin.  
  
  
  
And its heaven, because he hasn’t been there in so long, hasn’t tasted this, felt this in such a long time.  
  
  
  
The loud moan could possibly have been him, but the fact that Dean’s hands are starting to grab too makes him think that maybe it was Dean. And Sam thought that tasting Dean after so long was good, his knees almost buckle at the feeling of Dean’s hand, moving slowly, gliding up his stomach and over his chest to grasp at a shoulder.  
  
  
  
“If…” There isn’t enough breath behind it, but Sam hears him and looks up, eyes wide, full attention on Dean and whatever it is he’s about to say. Dean nods. “If we do this…you…” Shaking his head, his hands moving to cup Sam’s cheek, his eyes meeting Sam’s and staying there for longer than Sam ever remembers. “If we do this, you can’t leave me again.”  
  
  
  
Sam’s heart goes haywire because that was Dean’s version of ‘yes’ and although he still looks a little unsure there is something in his eyes that’s willing to trust Sam on this one.  
  
  
  
“I won’t. I won’t ever leave.”  
  
  
  
  
The End. Again. Or maybe not.  
  
 


End file.
